


pay the ferryman

by lacrimalis



Category: Klaus (2019)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21849298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: Jesper isn't able to pay for the ferry ride to Smeerensburg, so he agrees to an alternative method of payment.
Relationships: Jesper Johanssen/Mogens
Comments: 21
Kudos: 310





	pay the ferryman

**Author's Note:**

> only slightly dubious consent! jesper has options he's just stingy and lazy. 8)

"Alright, fare's five copper," Mogens says, untying the steamship from the dock post.

The postman tucks a dainty hand into his satchel and procures a coin purse that looks like it's worth six months of Mogens' salary. Mogens lifts an eyebrow, and it's soon joined by the other when the postman reaches inside the purse and pulls out a glittering golden coin. Inflation being what it is, it's not like he's never _seen_ a gold coin before. But…

Mogens drops the rope and places his hands on his ample hips. "I can't break that. Don't you have any copper? Silver, even?"

The postman's lip curls, his nose wrinkling in disdain. "Why would I go around carrying _small change?"_ he demands, as if the prospect is genuinely unthinkable.

"Oh, I dunno," Mogens says thoughtfully, "maybe so you aren't robbed of your life's savings on the road?"

The postman scoffs, holding the coin protectively in his fist, as if Mogens has just threatened to rob the man himself, which. Wouldn't exactly be _difficult._ "This is _hardly_ my life's savings."

"Uh-huh. Be that as it may, I can't break a gold with the coin I have on hand."

"You're – aren't you a government employee?"

Mogens digs a finger in his ear and frowns. "Sure," he allows.

"So you should _have_ the coin you need to service your customers!" The postman crosses his arms, satisfied with the logic of his argument despite its lack of respect to the reality of the situation.

"Well, I don't. Postal Service doesn't like us to have too much extra in case brigands come through. So you can either pay me with that," Mogens says – and for someone who doesn't care a whit about 'small change' and has a bulging purse of gold, the postman sure does clutch his purse tightly in response to that suggestion – "or you can trot your happy arse all the way back to the last town you saw, and get your coin exchanged at the inn."

The postman throws his arms up in dismay. "That was _six hours ago!"_

Mogens hisses through his teeth. "Tough break, Postman. Safe travels, see you tomorrow," he says, tying the steamship back to the post and making his way back to the boathouse. With a flippant wave, he adds, "Try not to get robbed on the way back."

"Wait, wait, wait!" the postman implores, hastening to put his money away and chase after Mogens. He grabs Mogens' shoulder. "Isn't there anything else? Couldn't we… I don't know… come to some sort of arrangement?"

Mogens allows the postman's grip to turn him halfway toward the man, but he doesn't feel like turning all the way around, so he simply lolls his head lazily against his shoulder to make up the difference and meet the postman's eye. "Arrangement," he repeats.

"Why, certainly!” The postman’s whole demeanor changes, fluffing up to some kind of upper-crust schmoozer in the span of a second. “You _country folk_ don't have a lot of money on hand – and that's fine! Perfectly understandable," he gushes theatrically. Weird turnabout, but all right. "You, um… barter, that's right! Don't you?"

"Sure," Mogens says, brushing the postman’s hand off of his shoulder like a fallen autumn leaf and turning fully toward him. "You got any whiskey?"

"What?" the postman says, thrown by the question. "No, I don't. But–"

"Bourbon?"

"No…"

"Beer?"

"I don't have any alcohol!" the postman grits out. "Just… give me a moment to look through my suitcases, I'm sure there's _something–"_

"I'll save you the trip. If you don't have alcohol, then there's nothin' you have that I want."

The postman deflates. "Surely there's something?" he says, wringing his hands.

Mogens glances at those hands, soft and delicate and dextrous. He sizes the man up, taking him all in with a slow, measuring look: scrawny, uppity, not half-bad looking. Mogens strokes his chin in thought, then grins crookedly at Smeerensburg's latest postman. "Now that you mention it, there _is_ one other thing."

* * *

Jesper can hardly believe he's doing this. He kneels between the ferryman's legs while the man leers down at him from the bed, the steamship rocking and swaying beneath them.

"There's still time to make it back to that inn before sundown, if you're having second thoughts," the ferryman reminds him.

"I'm _not,"_ Jesper insists. What's a few minutes of discomfort compared to a twelve hour round-trip in the cold, and yet another miserable inn? Sure, he could pay for a nice room, a nice bath, a nice dinner…

But when he said his purse _didn't_ have his life savings inside, he may have been fudging the facts a little. That purse contains all the spending money he'll have for the year, apart from the pittance of a monthly stipend he'll get from the Royal Postal Service – and if he fails to establish a post office, it really _will_ be his life's savings. He's not about to part with it if it can be avoided, and he's certainly not going to hand over a _gold coin_ in exchange for a five copper ferry ride.

So… here they are.

"But just so we're clear," Jesper says, determined to get the terms of their agreement ironed out. "If I suck you off, you'll ferry me to Smeerensburg. Right?"

"Cross my heart," the ferryman says with a grin, drawing an X across his sternum.

"Right," Jesper sighs and reaches for the buttons of the man's pants. He has to tug them over his ample gut, and when his brow furrows in frustration the ferryman simply folds his arms behind his head, content to watch Jesper struggle. Jesper scowls, but he refuses to ask the man for assistance for something so simple.

When he does get the man’s pants down to his waist, Jesper gives himself a moment. The man is clearly well-endowed, even with the last remaining boundary of his woolen underdrawers, and Jesper feels a little daunted at the prospect of putting something that big in his mouth. He glances up at the ferryman, who’s watching him with something like amusement and saintly patience.

Saintly. Yeah, right.

Jesper decides he’s better off getting this over with than delaying, and he pulls down the hem of the ferryman’s underdrawers. His cock doesn’t _quite_ spring free, since it’s still flaccid, but it’s a near thing: girthy and long and dark, and nestled in a thick tangle of dark pubic hair.

Jesper swallows.

The ferryman yawns loudly, and Jesper jumps, glaring up at the man. He hasn’t _said_ anything, but his meaning is obvious. _I’m getting bored up here._

Jesper wraps a hand around the ferryman’s cock and tugs.

“Hey, hey! Careful with that thing,” the ferryman complains, and Jesper huffs and loosens his grip. “That’s better.”

Jesper strokes slowly, getting a feel for the man’s cock and working up the nerve to actually put this thing in his mouth. It’s… surprisingly soft. Velvety, almost. Jesper doesn’t think his own cock has ever felt quite this soft when he’s taken himself in hand – but that might just be because it’s _his._ He’s never thought his hands were particularly soft either, but other people seem to think they are.

Speaking of which. “Your hands are soft,” the ferryman says with a groan, “but I’ll bet your tongue is even softer.”

It’s a rather pointed observation telling Jesper to get on with it, and he gets that he’s putting it off, okay? But the compliment is… It feels nice, makes warmth settle in Jesper’s face and his stomach. Something about the ferryman’s lazy, gravelly voice in this context makes his spine tingle.

“C’mon, I’m plenty hard now,” the ferryman says. And he _is_ that, to Jesper’s surprise. While Jesper was marveling at the softness of his cock, it had grown larger and hotter beneath his touch, throbbing with a deep red flush. Jesper smiles, feeling a little accomplished. He squeezes experimentally, and the ferryman groans, dropping his arms from behind his head to clutch at the bedclothes. “You’re killing me here, Postman.”

Jesper’s smile widens. This isn’t actually so bad? He’s not entirely certain if he’ll hate the way it tastes, but the ability to be the sole arbiter of someone else’s pleasure is a heady kind of power that he’s slowly growing to enjoy. He could even back out now, and the ferryman would have to take care of himself! But Jesper has become invested in the proceedings at this point, so he graciously decides not to leave the ferryman in the lurch.

He leans forward, getting a whiff of the ferryman’s seasalt-and-sweat musk, and licks the head of his cock.

The ferryman hisses through his teeth, brow furrowing deeply. When he opens his mouth, probably to offer more sarcastic feedback, Jesper takes advantage of the opportunity by sucking the head and a solid inch of the man’s cock onto his tongue.

The ferryman reacts like Jesper has punched him in the stomach, spine curving as a moan tumbles unexpectedly from his open mouth. “Cheeky,” the ferryman grumbles, nevertheless watching raptly as Jesper works his cockhead with his tongue. Jesper chuckles in self-satisfaction, which has the truly novel effect of making the ferryman’s eyelids flutter. “Hah… You’re a natural at this, kid. They teach you how to suck cock at the Royal Postal Academy?”

Jesper huffs in mild amusement, but the smart remark still comes off as insulting somehow, so on the downstroke he brings his teeth to bear. This has the opposite of its intended effect: the ferryman groans, and his legs twitch open further. He likes it rough, Jesper realizes, the knowledge settling somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach like a warm, leaden weight.

Jesper doesn’t have a hope in high water of getting the entirety of the ferryman’s cock down his throat, so he wraps his hands around the base and midsection while he works the top with his mouth, hanging on the ferryman’s every gasp and moan.

“Good God,” the ferryman groans. He buries a hand in Jesper’s hair, and Jesper tenses in expectation of some rough treatment. But those huge hands only stroke and pet, occasionally scratching Jesper’s scalp with blunt nails. Oh, that feels nice. Jesper moans in encouragement, and the ferryman gusts out a briney sigh. “Enjoying yourself down there?”

 _Is_ he enjoying himself? His mind comes back with a surprisingly resounding _yes,_ and he responds with a muffled, “Mhm.” He normally hates trying new things, and the circumstances are… less than ideal. He’s doing this to secure payment to cross the channel, after all. But would he have even considered the ferryman’s suggestion if the circumstances had been different?

What a missed opportunity that would have been, he thinks as he observes with keen interest all the ferryman’s little reactions. An acrid taste reaches Jesper’s tongue, and he pulls away in alarm, to the ferryman’s strangled protests. Off-white beads of viscous fluid drip from the twitching head of the man's cock. Jesper licks his lips, mulling over the strange and unfamiliar taste. The ferryman’s hand slips down to cradle his cheek and trace a thumb across Jesper’s swollen bottom lip. Jesper blinks up at him.

“Yer somethin’ else, Postman,” the ferryman says, an expression of consternation and wonder on his face. “You gonna finish me off with that sweet mouth of yours?”

Jesper rolls his eyes. “It’d serve you right if I didn’t,” he threatens, and the ferryman’s hand falls away with a deliriously rueful chuckle.

“You’re a bastard,” the ferryman groans, squeezing his thigh as if trying to draw the blood away from his cock.

“I’ll have you know my parentage is _meticulously_ documented,” Jesper rejoinders. It’s kind of amazing, though, that the ferryman is taking Jesper’s threats in stride. Jesper can’t imagine anyone teasing him like this and not whining or begging until they gave in out of sheer frustration.

“Sure, kid,” the ferryman says distractedly, eyes squeezed shut in an expression of endurance. His hand lifts away from his thigh to take his own cock in hand, evidently taking Jesper’s threats to heart.

And, well. That’s it then, right? Jesper has secured passage to Smeerensburg with his quick thinking and clever mouth, and the ferryman will take care of the rest. But… part of him misses the ferryman’s eyes on him, the breathless praise he was getting just moments ago.

Oh, screw it – in for a copper, in for a gold, Jesper thinks wryly.

Jesper pushes the ferryman’s hand out of the way and takes his cock back in his mouth, sucking and pressing with his tongue, stroking faster in deference to the man’s impending orgasm. The ferryman chokes, eyes flying wide open to watch Jesper take his cock as deep as he can manage. He maybe gets halfway down before he gags on it, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He pulls back, undeterred, and scrapes with his teeth.

The ferryman comes with a groan, his legs quaking and squeezing around Jesper’s shoulders. Jesper chokes on the rush of semen. It tastes gross, and it’s more than he expected, so he pulls off – which has the unfortunate side effect of getting it all over his face and in his hair. Ugh. Jesper presses his lips together and swipes some of it out of his eye.

The ferryman collapses back against the wall, heaving great big gasps as he catches his breath, the deep red of his complexion slowly fading away.

* * *

_Holy mackerel._

Mogens had honestly been pushing it – asking for sexual favors in exchange for a ferry ride was liable to get him in trouble with the people who cut his paycheck, if it ever got back to them. But the postman seemed less concerned about the breach of etiquette and more determined to save money and time, and had needed little convincing. Mogens thought he’d get a perfunctory orgasm out of the arrangement – he didn’t think the scrawny kid would make him see _stars._

Mogens wipes the sweat from his brow and looks down at the postman still kneeling between his legs, and he has to laugh. The man is covered in stripes of sticky, cooling semen. He’s doing his best to clear it away, but he's not having much luck. Mogens reaches over to liberate his pillow from its pillowcase and offer the cloth slip to the disgruntled postman. “Here you go, champ.”

The postman sighs and accepts the offered cloth with sticky hands. He makes a few noises of disgust as he wipes the mess away, but Mogens won’t soon forget the way the man had grinned and moaned _mhm_ around Mogens’ cock when he asked if the postman was enjoying himself.

Good _God._ The memory threatens to saddle Mogens with another erection, and he wipes himself clean with the bedclothes and tucks himself back in his pants to discourage his spent cock from getting any ideas.

The postman looks like he doesn’t know what to do with the pillowcase, and Mogens gestures for it, tossing it on the bed.

“Good show, kid,” Mogens praises, tucking his shirt in and buttoning up his pants. “If this postman thing doesn’t work out, you’d have a pretty good shot at a career in the, ah, service industry.”

“Gee, thanks,” the postman says flatly.

Mogens laughs, squeezing the man’s shoulder and pulling him to his feet as Mogens stands himself. “Go get your horse and wagon. We’ll be shoving off soon.”

“So… That was all right?” the postman probes.

Mogens glances at the man curiously. He thought his instructions made it pretty clear that he considered the service rendered suitable for the price of passage. But with the way he averts his gaze and flushes, Mogens can’t help but wonder if the postman is fishing for compliments on his performance for personal reasons. He grins. “Oh, _more_ than, I’d say! Best I’ve had in ages – in fact, once we’re underway you can come back here and take a load off. You certainly earned it,” he says with a wink.

Predictably, the postman reddens, and Mogens privately congratulates himself on hitting the proverbial nail on the head. “Uh, thanks.”

“Pleasure’s mine, Postman,” Mogens assures him, throwing open the hatch and climbing the ladder to the top deck. He offers the postman a hand and yanks him out into the cold, where he stumbles and throws his hands out to balance himself against Mogens’ shoulders. “And if it so happens that you’re in need of anything after we arrive in Smeerensburg” – and he will, Mogens can tell, just by looking at this scrawny underdressed idiot and knowing the Smeerensburg post office is a shambles – “then you come and find good ol’ Captain Mogens, and I’m sure we can come to another… mutually beneficial arrangement.”

The postman’s throat works around something difficult, and Mogens takes advantage of the proximity and the rare moment of silence to brazenly admire those swollen red lips. 

“Right,” and the postman winces when his voice cracks, disentangling himself from Mogens and clearing his throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Mogens snorts. He certainly hopes he will.


End file.
